


and suddenly you're all i need

by phae



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Clint’s not sure what it says about his psyche or his life before SHIELD that he has no issue propositioning Coulson with After Mission Sex regularly, but he can’t bring himself to ask Coulson for a hug.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	and suddenly you're all i need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raiining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/gifts).



> Title is from Avril's _Smile_.

Clint’s not sure what it says about his psyche or his life before SHIELD that he has no issue propositioning Coulson with After Mission Sex regularly (the first time he kept up his cocky grin the entire exchange, even in the face of Coulson’s blandest stare, and spouted some truly inspired bullshit about how it was the best way to ease the tensions in their asset/handler relationship) but he can’t bring himself to ask Coulson for a hug.

 

He knows Coulson would agree. After all, Coulson has yet to turn down the fuck buddies arrangement, and Clint’s pretty sure he only allows the sex to keep happening so that Clint will behave in the field. Clint doesn’t even really need to ask; he could just stroll in to Coulson’s office whenever, walk around the desk, lean over Coulson’s chair and wrap his arms around Coulson from behind, and he’s sure Coulson would let him.

 

He chickens out every time, though, and ends up asking Coulson something inane like the protocol for requisitioning bath soap.

 

He skirted around the topic in his last psych eval. What he could make out from Dr. Jeffries’ PC mumbo-jumbo boiled down to: he grew up without a lot of intimacy or positive physical contact, so having someone hold him without Clint offering some kind of incentive like sex makes him feel a shit-ton more vulnerable than stripping down and getting hot and heavy with somebody.

 

Yeah, he’s kind of screwed up in the head, he’s well aware. But that’s not going to stop him from trying to get Coulson to hold him ‘cause there’s something about Coulson that’s safe and warm and calming. Even when Coulson’s fucking him into a lumpy mattress in some shithole of a safe house, there’s an underlying level of comfort mixed up in all the heavy breathing and orgasms, and Clint’s curious what it would be like without all those other factors, awesome as they are.

 

So Clint drops down from the ceiling vent outside Coulson’s office and raps his knuckles against the doorframe as he steps inside. He opens his mouth, not sure how exactly to word it, but hoping for something to come out that’s more eloquent than, “Sorry to bother you, sir, just wondering if we could sit on your couch and cuddle for a bit.”

 

But Coulson looks up from his piles of paperwork with an eyebrow quirked in silent question, and the words die in Clint’s throat. He yanks his lips into some kind of odd smirk/smile so that he doesn’t stand there gaping at his handler like an idiot and rifles around in his head for something work-related to say.

 

“Can I help you with something, Barton?” Coulson asks.

 

All Clint can think to say is, “Did you know they’ve been masquerading turkey dogs as hotdogs in the mess? When I choose to eat mystery meat on a bun, I want it to be a horribly good mystery meat, you know? Like deer or something. Or maybe raccoon. Do people eat raccoon meat?”

 

“I’m sure someone somewhere considers it to be quite a delicacy,” Coulson replies, shuffling his papers into a neat pile before pushing his chair back and standing. He walks around his desk but doesn’t head toward Clint in the door. Instead, he goes to the worn couch shoved in the corner and motions for Clint to join him.

 

Clint steps forward but then stops, wondering why they’re going to sit on the couch. And that just puts him back to looking weird in front of Coulson, so with his shoulders slouching, he walks to the couch and flops down.

 

Coulson smiles, just a little, but still enough to notice, and there’s crinkles at the edges of his eyes like when he’s amused by something, but he doesn’t really look  _amused,_ more fond. He slowly reaches up a hand and curls it around the back of Clint’s neck, pulling Clint toward him carefully. Clint’s confused enough to simply follow where Coulson’s hand leads him, which is how he ends up with his head in Coulson’s lap and Coulson’s fingers carding through his hair.

 

“I can hardly blame the cooks here for trying to trick us into eating healthier, though,” Coulson continues. “We hardly keep up a balanced diet on ops.”

 

Clint hums in agreement, too distracted by rubbing his cheek against Coulson’s thigh to come up with words. Coulson doesn’t seem to mind; he keeps up an easy one-sided conversation, listing off all the things he keeps saying he needs to do around his apartment but that never get done because there’s always a crisis when he has a day-off planned.

Clint lays there and marvels at the general niceness surrounding him: nice quiet office, nice comfy couch, nice warm thigh, nice steady voice. Coulson is the nicest, and Clint’s maybe a little bit in love with him because of that.


End file.
